


And the Life Goes On

by Menolith



Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game)
Genre: Better Become a Mushroom Symbiote To Stave Off Death, Character Study, Everyone I Love is Dead, Gen, Old Age, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-01
Updated: 2019-03-01
Packaged: 2019-11-07 12:28:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17960540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Menolith/pseuds/Menolith
Summary: Life goes on. We can rage against the dying of the light, but everything that begins, ends. All we can do is go along for the ride.Or is it quite that black-and-white, in the end?





	And the Life Goes On

**Author's Note:**

> I had a character concept for an old Circle of Spores druid for a 5e setting, and I accidentally wrote a billion words about her.
> 
> Time to never have an opportunity to play her.

"Ellie, look!" Harriet shouted, interrupting Nora's train of thought.

She was kneeling on the grass and looked up from her craft without taking her hands off the impressively gnarled stick in in front of her. To a casual observer the stick might have looked like an old root someone had used to beat up a bird of paradise with, but to her—and her friends in the know, of course—it was clearly a Staff of Super Magic. The painted feathers made it very special, and it even had colorful baubles hanging from it, though the sticky resin holding them there had not set quite yet so she didn't dare swing it too much.

"What is it?" she asked Harriet, who had just been helping her decorate her staff. Harriet only pointed down towards the town, and Nora followed her finger, having to shield her eyes from the summer sun. There was a minor buzz on the town square, and given how their town had fewer people in it than most large family gatherings did, that buzz was a riot by their standards. A strange covered wagon was sitting in the middle of the town square—though strictly speaking it was less of a square and more of a spill of the intersection where the general store and the smithy faced each other, but everyone called it the square nonetheless—and there were a few curious people talking to someone via a wooden hatch on the wagon's side.

That was strange. Carvahall didn't get many visitors, and one in such an odd vehicle was doubly unusual. Nora squinted, trying to make out details. "Who's that? Ma said that the jesters would be coming through by the end of the summer, but that's just one wagon."

Harriet shrugged. "Wanna go see? I think the staff will hold."

Nora looked down on it where she had been pressing a feather into the glob of tree resin near its top. She pulled her finger away, feeling her skin stick to it. She didn't want to stop the craft, but strange newcomers were even rarer than sufficiently magical sticks. After humming in contemplation, she nodded and shook Harriet's hand off the staff and propped herself up. She gave the staff a few experimental thuds, and while the feathers and baubles shook, none fell. Good enough for now.

"Alright!" she said, pointing at the wagon with her staff. Not quite directly though, because wielding magical staves that recklessly was no way for a mage to act. "Onwards!" she yelled, slightly after Harriet had already taken off towards the town square.

 

* * *

 

"Ma said I could see her." Nora pouted and crossed her arms on the dinner table, staring down her father.

Garrow pursed his lips, staring back at her and taking another spoonful of the potato soup. "She said you _might,_ and I have never liked the look of that old crone. And now I heard what happened at the Harlows."

Nora almost bristled at the crass way her father had referred to granny Aching. "She is _not_ a crone!" she all but yelled, the annoyance in her starting to fuel her anger. "She is helping people!"

She'd know. She had seen that. Granny Aching was a good person. Sure, she might have a tongue mean enough to hurt a brick, but she never scolded anyone if they didn't deserve it! Or, often, even if they did. She had healed Old Man Hoarwood's ankle after he sprained it, and she had helped Harriet's sheep when it had trouble giving birth. And she was smart, too! She talked so much that Nora didn't think she'd ever run out of things to say.

Her father scowled darkly, looking down to take another spoonful. "Helping? We've seen hedge witches before, and 'helping' isn't spreading lies about family friends. Who does she think she is, waltzing in here and having the gall to accuse Annette of _infidelity,"_ he said, spitting out the last word. "What does she know."

Nora didn't know what the word meant, but her big sister looked at Father weirdly, so it must be something important. But granny Aching wouldn't say that if she wasn't sure of it. "She knows more than you," she said, setting her lips even as her father slowly turned his eyes back on her, this time with more weight behind them. She refused to balk. Granny Aching said that you shouldn't let other people tell what to think.

"Eleanora," Garrow said with a tense voice, letting her full name settle into the silence of the room.

Nora swallowed but didn't look away, scowling back at him. She didn't trust her voice, so she just turned and left her half-finished bowl on the table and stood up, snatching her staff from where it was leaning against the bench she had been sitting on.

 _"Eleanora,"_ Garrow said again, a clear command.

She ignored him and bolted out of the door, feeling the warm grass under her feet as she ran down the small hill their home was sitting on, hearing her father yell after her.

 

* * *

 

"Granny Aching, what does 'infidelity' mean?"

She was sitting on the folded-out side panel of granny Aching's wagon, looking inside with her legs dangling off the edge. Granny Aching herself was inside with her back turned, mincing some herbal reagent. The sound of the chopper against the wood slowed for a second, telling Nora that she had been heard. Granny Aching had told her to look at the details.

There was a weary sigh as the chopping resumed. "'In-' is a negative, meaning that it reverses the meaning of the word. Just like in 'insignificant.' 'Fidelity' means faithfulness to a cause or belief. So, 'infidelity' means that someone is breaking a promise or an agreement."

Granny Aching always explained long words for her. It was very mag-na-ni-mous of her. Nora let the silence stretch on, knowing that granny Aching would get there on her own pace.

She did, after a short moment and a grumble as she swept the fine herb mixture into a pot. "You have your mother's eyes, don't you?"

Nora nodded. Her aunt Sybil often told that when they met. She thought that the deep green hue was rather pretty.

"Well, that's because you inherited them from her. That's how life goes on in general out there; two parts blending together to make something new. You can see it in plants too. You know how some pea pods are a bit wrinkly? If you take two plants with wrinkly pods and pollinate one with the other, you'll likely get a new plant which also makes wrinkly pods. Sometimes traits are inherited in complex ways, but ultimately everything that you are comes, in some form, from your parents." She paused again, tapping the pot. "How many minutes?"

Nora blinked, mind switching modes quickly to recall what she had been told earlier. "It's, um, yarrow extract, so..." she trailed off, scrunching her eyes shut. The herb was used for something about seeing more, and... "Thirty minutes, or until it stops leaching color." She opened her eyes and looked at her expectantly.

"Good," came the reply which made Nora smile. "Remember the low heat, or the potency is going to fade." Without even acknowledging the change of topic, she continued, "You heard that word regarding the Harlows?"

Nora nodded, suddenly reminded of her mostly skipped dinner. "Father didn't like it. He's friends with Annette." She didn't mention how he had called her a 'crone,' though.

Granny Aching let out a resigned hum. "I've noticed. Keeping track of who associates with whom is useful. But... Well. Just like with peas, you can see traits going down in humans. You got your eyes, and... Some of those traits don't pass on easily. The shape of the ear is one of those. Annette has that sort of ear that doesn't pass on unless both parents have similar ones, and her husband doesn't. Yet their son has the same ear as his mother, so where did that come from?"

It was an open question, and Nora furrowed her brow as she thought about it. How did that relate to breaking a promise? "Uh," she said to fill in the air, "someone else?"

"Exactly. I couldn't but help notice that the Hoarwood's get happens to have the very same ear. It makes me think that Annette's son isn't at all with her husband. And that... Well. Your mother and father love each very much, no?"

Nora nodded again. They yelled a lot, but usually not at each other, and if they did, never for long. And more often than not it was about whether or not Father could cook that strange pungent root soup he liked.

"They're married. Most parents are, and that's an agreement of sorts. That the two belong to one another and nobody else; body, mind and soul. I'm no auspex so I can't say where Annette's mind and soul lie, but I have a very good idea of where her body had been." She coughed. "Excuse me, witch-talk."

She said that often. Witch-talk was stuff that you didn't tell others about. Some herbs could do nasty things to people, for example, so it only made sense to not let everyone know. She wasn't sure why this here was witch-talk, but she filed it in her head anyway. Body, mind and soul. There was something... mystic about that.

"But yes, siring children with an another person breaks that promise. It hurts. Placing your love and trust in someone, only to find those violated. It's not news that anyone takes lightly."

Nora kept swinging her legs on her perch and tilted her head, thinking about it. Could Father betray mom?

No, she thought after a moment. Like granny Aching had put it, he was hers; mind, body and soul. She wasn't sure what that meant, but there was something in their eyes when she made him smile. A thing like that, breaking down... It didn't feel right.

"Why?" she eventually asked, not bothering to elaborate.

Granny Aching barked a laugh from her wagon. "And isn't that the question. Why she? Who knows. Maybe not even she herself, but that is not mine to know. All that is between her and Timothy—and the neighbor, now—and I only gave her the information. What she does with it is not my business or in my hands." She picked up a ladle and stirred the pot in front of her. "Why in general? Gods only know. Humans are strange creatures."

Nora nodded, fiddling with her magic staff. She didn't think people were creatures, but they were strange.

 

* * *

 

"Ellie, look!"

Eleanora raised her eyes from the bubbling beaker on the desk and leaned back as far as she could, peeking out of the backdoor of Tiffany's wagon. Harriet was skipping towards her, her flowing dress fluttering in the wind as she skid to a halt. She was beaming, to the point of all but vibrating in place, with her hazel eyes wide with excitement.

"What's the news?" Eleanora asked, the infectious energy making her forget the potion brewing on the hotplate.

"I got in!" Harriet squealed, waving a piece of parchment in her hand. Eleanora couldn't make out the words, but it had a big red seal with a ribbon on it near the bottom, and those were only used by a few institutes, which meant...

Her smile died down halfway to a grimace before she caught herself and propped it back up. "The... Academy?" she managed.

"Yes!" Harriet yelled and took her in a hug, almost tipping both over given Eleanora's precarious position. She managed to dodge a fall by gripping the edge of the desk and almost throwing over the ingredient bowls, but Harriet didn't notice and just spun her around laughing. She had been talking about starting magical studies, and Eleanora had expected for her to join her as Tiffany's pupil. She had been looking forward to that, in a way redoing their childhood plays with sticks and diagrams, except for real this time with both of them working together, helping Tiffany with the potions and reading natural signs, but now...

"That's... great!" she said, swallowing her thoughts and shoving them deep down. "Was that Hightower seal? I didn't catch it."

"Yes!" Harriet yelled again, out of breath from the running and spinning. "They're going to make me a real mage! Familiars and fireballs and all!" She was gushing, almost to the point of hyperventilating.

And this wouldn't be being a real mage, would it? Brewing potions and chasing off horntoads?

"I'm so happy for you," Eleanora said, thinking about what to say. "How... soon is that?" Her stomach dropped in advance as Harriet quieted and gave her a short grimace.

"It's, ah. Schoolyear starts a month from now, so I'll have to leave in two weeks."

She had expected that, but it still hurt. Harriet sighed, looking away for a second. "I know, it's... sudden. It's scary to think that I'd leave, and leave you all... But it's not like I'll stay a stranger!" she said, taking Eleanora's shoulders in her hands, looking her in the eyes. "I'll send letters! And, and, I can get a familiar! An owl or something so I can send you things every day!"

Eleanora forced a smile on herself, opening her mouth and changing her mind at the last second. This wasn't about her. "Of course!" She shook Harriet's hands off her, and took her in another hug, putting on a smile against the hood of her cloak. "This place is going to be a so glum without you in it, is all... It just won't be the same, you know?"

It wasn't.

 

* * *

 

"No."

"Father, yes."

"I said no."

Eleanora scowled and crossed her arms. For a man who was by all appearances on his deathbed, he sure tried to drum up authority on the matter. "It's going to get worse before it gets better if you don't take this." She waved a small vial of orange liquid in her hand.

Garrow grimaced as if she had dangled a dead rat on his face. "That's one of the hag's brews, isn't it. Not touching it."

Eleanora blew air through her nose sharply, staring her father down from above. He didn't have to like Tiffany, but she refused to let him mock her on his sickbed. "As it happens, no. This one I made entirely by myself all for you—under her magnanimous supervision, I might add, which she is not in any way obligated to give." She slammed the vial down on the nightstand, controlling herself enough to not crack it. "You can take a horse to water but you can't make it drink, so here we are. That thing here tastes of honey and will fix you up by tomorrow. I care not what you think of her—" a white lie to drive in the point "—but I will call you the bloody moron you are if you miss out on the fair because you dislike someone I know."

Her father huffed. "I've had thrice as many ailments as you have years. I'm not about to just kick the bucket come morning, thank you."

She swallowed a sigh of exasperation. She hadn't known it would be that hard. She knew how much Father wanted to take part in the fair, especially with how well his cucumbers had been shaping up, so for him to resist this hard was very out of place. There was something there, Eleanora suspected. Him staying silent about her studies under Tiffany was strange indeed if he felt this strongly about it. Mom had to have something to do with that. Who else would make him keep it to himself?

She sighed and sat down on the bed, scolding herself for losing her cool, and switched tracks. "The Hoarwoods are going to be at the fair, and at this rate, I know you won't." Before her father could speak up, she went on, "and trust me on that one. This is grassfever if I've ever seen a case. I can even bring you a book from the chapel, spell out the symptoms and let you decide for yourself on that. You will barely be on your feet if even that, when you should be showing up on Hoarwoods."

Garrow eyed the vial warily, harrumphing but not arguing.

Emboldened, she pushed more, abusing an unfair advantage of parental love. "I made it from scratch just for you. I spent a lot of time and effort picking the weirseeds that went into that potion, and having that go to the compost would be waste twice over when followed by the prize cucumbers."

With his ego battling itself, it was hard to read his face, but eventually he groaned and reached for the vial. "To hells with her," he growled, getting the spite out of his system as he hiked himself up to a sitting position. "But you'll do. You guarantee this will do it?" he asked and squinted at the bottle.

"Yes Father," she said and put her fist on her breast, marring the religious gesture with a roll of her eyes. "I solemnly swear I shall partake in no patricide in my own household."

Her father huffed and corked the vial. "I don't remember raising you to be that uppity," he said before downing the contents and visibly making himself swallow it.

Eleanora stuck her tongue out, trying to lighten the mood slightly as she took the empty vial from his hand.

She hadn't mentioned it, but Tiffany had her own version of the idiom she had used earlier: anyone can take a horse to water, but you need skills to trick it into drinking when it has to.

 

* * *

 

Her hands shook.

She couldn't think.

Granny Aching always told her to keep a clear mind but she couldn't.

All she could hear were the squeals and the... the... the bell, even over the battering of the cold rain on her. She shivered at the thought. She wanted to throw up.

She managed to stumble over to the familiar wagon, but finding the knocker to alert granny Aching proved more difficult as her hands kept slipping on the metal until the door was pushed open from the inside.

"Eleanora, what—" granny Aching started from the doorway, turning serious fast. "What happened? Come in," she said, taking Eleanora's hand and pulling her up. Eleanora just hugged her tight, clinging to her sinewy frame like her life depended on it, slowly starting to choke up.

Granny Aching took it in stride and clapped the door closed, letting her into the warmth of the wagon. "You're not bleeding. What is it?"

She scrunched her eyes shut, hearing the bell in her mind again. Gods, why had she not told her about the bell. With the pressure of the hug and the warmth and light of indoors, she started to realize her own state, and tried to pull herself together. "There—there was a goblin," she said after a moment of hiccuping.

A concerned groan rumbled from granny Aching, and she pushed Eleanora away by the shoulders, keeping a firm hold on her. "Where? How many? Are people in danger?" Her voice was firm, reassuring.

Eleanora swallowed again, forcing her thoughts back on track. She was fine now, she was safe. She shouldn't have lost her presence of mind, and now she was crying like a godsdamn school—

"Hey," she heard granny Aching say. Eleanora shook her head, chastising herself again for not keeping herself together, and felt a hand on her cheek. "It's fine. It's okay. Take your time. You're not a machine."

She took deep breaths, not meeting granny Aching's eyes. She... She couldn't afford this, not now. She took a sharp breath and shook her wet hair into some semblance of order. "By, by the well, I was going there for the disti—nevermind there was a goblin. I could see yellow eyes looking at me from a nearby alcove, and I thought it was a cat or something, but it wasn't, and—" she caught herself, realizing that she was rambling, and took a slow breath before continuing, "—it jumped at me. I didn't know what to do, so I just screamed and... tolled it." She shivered again, the horrifying empty gong still ringing in her mind.

Understanding dawned on Tiffany's face. "Ah. I see. Did it get to you?"

Eleanora shook her head. "N—no. It stumbled, so I tolled it again. And it got up, so I kept casting it over and over again as I backed away, and it kept coming until it tried to run, and..." she trailed off. Her stomach turned from remembering the squeals as the goblin shook and clawed at its own eyes, and how she had just _kept going_ until it went limp. "You told me not to use it on people, but I didn't know what to do..."

Tiffany squeezed her shoulder reassuringly. "Good. You did well." Eleanora blinked and wiped some snot from her nose, still not sure what to think. "They are murderous, thieving bastards. You did the right thing. Did you see others?"

"I... I don't know, I just saw it and tolled and ran, I... didn't look." That admission stung. 'Always keep your eyes open' is what Tiffany always told her, and she had bungled up when she most needed to.

Tiffany nodded. "Good, good. They seldom come alone, so that was probably a scout then."

Eleanora's stomach dropped. There were others? She resisted the urge to look behind her with all her might.

"Now, we need to be fast. This wagon is heavily warded, so they won't come in. And I need your help, okay?" She squeezed her again, and Eleanora felt like crying, but she swallowed it down. She was needed. Tiffany nodded to her sharply. "Good. I need you to prepare eight willow-soaked yarrow packs, at least five doses of haleweed extract, and as many binder poultices as you can. We might need them. Haleweed first, because the poison the goblins favor is a nasty one. Got that?"

Eleanora's eyes went wide. Those were... not just for scratches. And haleweed? It was serious. She shook her head, kicking herself in motion with a clear target in mind. "Haleweed, yarrow packs, poultice last. Yeah, we should have enough—wait," she suddenly stopped, realizing that Tiffany had left herself out. "Why me? What about you?"

Tiffany gave her a mirthless smile. "We can't very well afford to have the goblins skulk as they please, can we?"

"But—but you—" Eleanora stuttered.

"I will be fine. They will not." There was finality to her words, and Eleanora couldn't help but accept them as she was gently pushed away. "I won't be too long. You'll recognize my voice when I get back, so just focus on the extracts. We might need them fast if other villagers are nearby." Eleanora just nodded as Tiffany got dressed, just throwing on a pair of worn pants and a cloak and picking up a partially splintered broomhandle on her way out. "Be fast," was all she said as she butted the door open and looked both ways before slamming it shut behind her, the locking mechanism clacking itself on. Eleanora's head was still spinning, but she turned to the task at hand and pushed all else aside. Right. Packs, poultice and extract. Packs would need to soak, but she could reuse the water from the poultices so if she got that brewing first...

 

* * *

 

"Was that right?" Eleanora asked, cradling a hot cup of tea in her hands.

Tiffany grunted, stacking the unused yarrow packs to the side of the wagon. The rain still pattered on the roof, but the stress and scrambling of the evening had started to fade out from Eleanora. She still cringed when she remembered the sound of the spell she had used, but it felt more distant, now, something she could think about rather than just feel. Especially now that she had something warm in her, Tiffany nearby and the threat gone.

"The killing?" Tiffany asked, not looking at her. She had a tendency of doing that. Asking questions she probably knew the answer to, always doing something else at the same time. Eleanora hummed in agreement and took a sip, tasting honey in the brew. "Yes. It was," Tiffany said. "Why do you think it wouldn't?"

She did that a lot too. Responding with questions rather than answers. "I..." Eleanora remembered the blood-curdling sound again, how it had made the creature spit and convulse. "There was another way, wasn't there? Did yo— _we_ need to kill them?" She could have just stopped before the killing blow. She was sure the goblin would've fled.

Tiffany stopped her organizing and picked up a cup for herself, pouring it full. She didn't sweeten it. "The Chapel says that kindness is a virtue. I'm happy if you choose to live by that." She turned around and sat on a rickety chair in front of her, taking a sip and meeting her eyes. "But I'll be damned if you will die by it. Tell me, what was that goblin doing? Skulking in darkness uninvited, and when it saw you, what did it do? Did it greet you? Or put down its weapon? Or did it charge you without hesitation, weapon drawn?"

Eleanora sighed. The latter, of course, that much she did remember even through the haze of the bells.

Tiffany let out a knowing hum. "Exactly. They were not here out of the kindness of their own hearts. Without you noticing them, God knows what might have happened. There are newborns in this town too." She took another sip. "Benefit of the doubt is earned. If you had met one in broad daylight and it hadn't been hostile, yes, I can see why you'd want to not attack on the spot—but choosing to sneak in the shadows with a poisoned blade in hand means that you deserve everything coming for you."

Eleanora found herself nodding. It made sense. "It's just... It was so _gruesome._ I knew the tolling was witch-talk, but I never thought it'd be... that it'd be so terrible." She peered into her mug again, swirling it around. "I thought it would be no worse than loosing an arrow."

It took her a few seconds to realize that the silence wasn't a comfortable one, and she looked up. Tiffany's face was unreadable, as it often was, but even that told her something.

Tiffany furrowed her brow, putting down her cup. "You used the toll. Describe it."

Eleanora blinked. "Well, at first there was this, um..." she had hard time finding the words, "tug, kind of. There was something in there, as if teetering on an edge, but not really... And it was, taut, kind of, and I could tug back at it. Make it thrum, and when I did, there was this, this..." she waved her hand around with a grimace, "horrible sound, like a gong ringing, and the goblin stumbled. I kept doing that and it got louder and louder, until something snapped and... it was pushed over the edge."

Tiffany looked at her for a few seconds. "So you could hear it."

Eleanora met her eyes, trying to puzzle out what she meant by that. Was she not supposed to hear it? "Yes, why?"

Tiffany sighed. "I somewhat hoped you wouldn't, but oh well. You hearing the bell means that you are more sensitive to the immaterial than most are. Usually people feel only discomfort when casting that spell." She shook her head briefly. "Though that explains your reaction. Hearing the dead bells for the first time is certainly more than enough to upset anyone."

Eleanora tilted her head, digesting the information. Was she... magical? It had been a long time since she had been running around with a "magical" staff in tow. "Sensitive? What do you mean?"

Tiffany smiled briefly and drained her cup. "That, my girl, means that we'll make a witch out of you yet."

 

* * *

 

It had been a long time since she had last gotten a letter from Harriet. She didn't blame her, though. Life went on, and the big city had far more things to care about rather than estranged childhood friends. Her studies must have kept her very busy too, if the early letters were anything to go by. It... did hurt, though, she had to admit. Harriet was one of the few people of her own age in the village, and they had been inseparable. Time moved on, but even so she missed her. Her enthusiasm, her skill in crafts, the stupid jokes. Her smile, her everything. God, how many years had it been since she had last seen those?

She smiled faintly and looked up to the rafters of the wagon, seeing her old staff of "super magic" hung in there. Exactly as it had been all those years ago, though now it didn't seem quite as impressive of an artifact as it once had. Life moved on, whether she wanted it or not. She'd be happy for her. Not every farmhand was given the opportunity to earn their dots in the most prestigious of the magical academies.

 

* * *

 

The morning came with audacity. Eleanora opened her eyes from her cot, hearing the birds sing outside. As if the world was the same. As if everything was going on like it always had.

There was no ominous thunderstorm. No depressing rain, and not even a divinely peaceful day. Just another Tuesday, slightly overcast and windy. She sat up, looking over the insides of Tiffany's wagon. Everything like it always had been, except it was hollow. There was no tea kettle bubbling. No humming from the back, no coals crackling in the stove. There was no _soul_ to it, only an empty cot reminding her of the absence of what mattered. The whole wagon felt like something between a coffin and a corpse. Empty.

The words of yesterday still hung heavily in her mind. Speeches, farewells, well-wishes and a dozen other irrelevant things. What of that mattered, with Tiffany gone? She wouldn't have cared even if she were alive.

Eleanora just sat there, still numb. None had questioned her when she had slept in the wagon. It was hers now, wasn't it? Tiffany hadn't had a will or anything of the sort, but it was just accepted that Eleanora was her grandchild in all but name. And now she was gone, and... life went on. Old man Hoarwood was on his last days, and he'd need preparing. And his family, consoling. There were hints of redrot on the eastern fields which would need to be dealt with. Westwoods would need a midwife.

And so the world was going on, not giving Tiffany Aching a moment of silence. Just a mound on the hill and people giving platitudes to her memory. Eleanora buried her face in her hands. She didn't know what to do, and now, she had nobody to ask either. What would Tiffany do?

She gave a bitter laugh after a second of thought, shaking her head. Tiffany would tell her to get up and be done with it. That's what she always did. She had been always moving. Always talking, always helping. Always mending, always... doing. Every moment of every day.

She gave a deep sigh and threw the covers off herself, ignoring the morning chill. She had things to do.

 

* * *

 

Those thoughts never got easier. When Garrow caught a bad cough, Eleanora knew that things were coming to a point. He had many, many years to his age, and not one of them made the illness easier for him.

She was by no means a novice to outwitting sicknesses, but in the face of eternity there was little she could do.

He passed away in his sleep.

And she moved on. She was there for her mother. And her sister, and her brother. She moved on and did the proper preparations. Cried herself to sleep when time allowed, and gave the last rites.

And life went on.

 

* * *

 

Eleanora bit her tongue to keep a vicious swear from soiling the air of her wagon. Anthony Hoarwood was a bigoted, bullheaded self-centered moron like she had never seen. Perhaps blaming his upbringing would make that easier to stomach.

But yet, she had a job to do, and she'd be damned if she didn't. "I have told you. You need to start using a chewing stick." It wasn't the first time he'd been told that, and neither was it the first time he had come crawling to her because of a bad tooth. She swore if he came back for a third time, she'd fix him up with a chisel and a mallet.

"I do!" he protested with his mouth open, as if he had an inkling that he had done anything wrong.

 _"Regularly."_ It was very obvious that he hadn't as much as spat in the direction of a chewstick in the last month.

He scoffed. Eleanora bit her tongue again, feeling a vein bulge on her temple. And wasn't he the expert on everything. Did he really think she was saying that just to annoy him? That her claiming that poor hygiene resulted in ailments?

"Fine," she said, getting up and rummaging through a nearby drawer to retrieve a pointed scalpel. Hard way it was, then. She tried to not feel some satisfaction as she saw Anthony stiffen in her peripheral vision. She turned back to him and held the point of the blade over a nearby candle, letting the heat cleanse it. "It's worse this time," she said and inspected the sterilized scalpel, turning to him.

"Ah, miss Fairfax, I'm not sure, the last time—" he said, voice stuttering slightly before she interrupted him.

"Last time the rot was barely there, so this time I'll have to lance the gum to let the magic in," she lied and motioned him closer. "It won't hurt nearly as much as you think." He swallowed thickly, but thankfully pride was one of his many faults and currently overriding his fear. She moved in and opened his mouth, peering inside. Yes, one of the bottom molars was going bad. And apparently he thought that her services were an adequate replacement for proper hygiene.

She brought the scalpel in, hearing his breathing quicken. With her other hand, she pretended to swipe aside a stray hair and she dragged a small sewed patch of fleece over her eyes, calling forth an illusion to her mind. She'd need something small and nasty... yes, that would do. The strands of magic wafted invisibly in the air, and she poked the scalpel against his gum, barely drawing blood and making him flinch. 

"There," she said and cast a second spell, this one much more taxing. Power drained from her as the healing magic seeped into him and washed away the corruption in his tooth. With a swift motion, she put the scalpel away and pretended to pull something from the closed wound, making the illusion coalesce into the image of a tiny goblin which she pulled it out and showed it to him. If that didn't keep him away from here, she didn't know what would.

He yelped and recoiled at the sight, shoving the illusory gremlin away in disgust and hastily bringing his hand to his jaw, as if trying to feel them in him. "What—what is that?!" he all but screamed, looking at her wide-eyed.

She let the illusion squirm between her fingertips before making a show of crushing it and wiping it off, grunting sagely. "And that is why you use chewsticks. These devils hate the taste and it keeps them at bay."

He waved his hands in bewilderment. "But... but why? Why didn't you tell me last time that there were... _monsters_ on me!" His tone was accusatory, as if she were the culprit.

She started putting her things away, opening and closing drawers. "Knowledge is power, and knowing that they exist sometimes lets you see them. Most are better off not knowing and just keeping their teeth clean, but that was not enough here." She wasn't above bald-faced lies if those were needed to get the job done, but she'd rather not have him go around yelling about tooth goblins just because he needed a fairy tale to get his affairs in order.

"See them?" He was going pale, and she wondered if she had overdone it.

"Normally they are invisible, and knowing what to look for sometimes makes it impossible to unsee them." He swallowed and shook his head, but Eleanora went on. "You probably won't develop that sight, but still. Keep that between the two of us. Just keep your mouth clean twice a day and they'll never set in."

He was trembling slightly even as he walked out of her wagon, Eleanora watching him him as she cleaned the scalpel.

Any idiot can take a horse to water...

 

* * *

 

Her years were catching up to her. On an abstract level she had always known, but it was a slow and insidious killer. She only noticed it when she caught herself grimacing after dropping a pestle. Not because of her clumsiness, none were immune to that, but because she didn't want to bend over to pick it up. She stared at the elongated bit of smooth stone on the floor, and eventually uttered a curse as she crouched to retrieve it. Her knees complained, but she ignored them and went back to her work.

The thought loomed in her mind regardless. She wasn't immortal. Another thing she had always known, but now it seemed more tangible than ever, and her mind went back to the dozens of funerals she had held. She shook her head and gritted her teeth, putting more force into the mortar than necessary.

 

* * *

 

She stared at the sock on the floor. It taunted her. She should just bend over and put it on herself, but her back was giving her a silent threat to do no such thing. She wanted to do it anyway, take the pain and push through it as if nothing was wrong, but what would that actually do? It'd give her a hollow sense of victory, sure, but for what? She'd just be in pain. Pretending that it wasn't there wouldn't make it go away.

She stared at the sock for a long while, eventually letting out a sigh. She slid her hand over her other, as if removing and invisible glove, and with a whisper of magic called forth an ethereal copy of it which slid off her skin. Without bending down, she straightened her leg and let it dress herself.

It was the right thing to do. It was the pragmatic thing to do.

That didn't make her feel like she hadn't just lost something important.

 

* * *

 

Her legs ached. The spring in her step was long gone, and as she sat down on the chair in her wagon, she did so with a groaned exhale, her feet thanking her for the respite. There had been a time when she hadn't thought about just how much walking her days included. Up and down the hills and stairs, back and forth from forest to garden and back again, to homes and back from barns. She sat there for a long while, waiting for the ache to ebb away.

"Miss Fairfax!" came a shout from the outside, and shook herself from her thoughts. It was Anton, the butcher's kid. He ran up to the wagon, peeking inside with a slightly reverent look in his eyes. Probably the same she had had, all those years ago, when she had first seen it.

"Yes?" she asked, motioning the boy inside.

"Um," he said, not making a move, "um. Papa said that you could make the peas not die."

Ah, that. Probably white mildew again. Should be easy enough to fix with some milk and regular spraying. Just so happens that the mayor owed her a favor or ten, so bumming a bottle or two from him should be easy enough.

"Yes, of course," she said and started getting up, having almost forgotten the state of her legs. She stood there for a moment, feeling the ache return, and looked up to the rafters. Was it really time? She had been putting it off, but her knees just weren't what they had used to be.

With a sigh, she conjured a mage hand and brought down the tacky staff she had decorated so many decades ago. She ran her hands on the old wood, deeming it strong enough, and struck the staff on the floor a few times, making the baubles jingle. She smiled, pushing the sense of dread aside in favor of remembering happier memories.

"Well then," she said after a second, clambering down and leaning on the staff, "let's get going. I have a feeling I know what is the issue. They have this white fuzz on them, don't they?"

 

* * *

 

Her eyes were not too far behind. It started when she looked down to the town and didn't recognize the person on the town square. It was a proper square now, the cobblestone making it not look like just an accident, but she just could not see who was on it. She pursed her lips and turned away, trying to not let the hollow feeling in her stomach distract her.

 

* * *

 

Without a word, she completed the ritual. Two feathers of an owl fell into the brazier and burst into black flames, sending a pulse outwards and scaring away a few crows that had been lurking nearby. The pulse wrapped around Eleanora, molding around her form. It was unpleasant, but she held fast and gave the force no quarter. In a second, the pressure eased and the magic bounced back, impacting the brazier and sending burning coals flying all over. She shielded her face and with a thought sent her mage hand to gather the embers before they caused a wildfire.

She stepped forward and looked into the brazier, seeing something stirring there. At the same time, she looked up from the brazier, seeing herself look down.

She allowed the owl familiar to crawl from the ashes and hop onto her shoulder. She closed her eyes, and _saw_ like she had not seen in decades. Or ever.

And still, she felt no younger.

 

* * *

 

She hissed as she sat on her cot heavily, the sharp burn in her knees easing slightly as she took her weight off them. She took off her dirtied shawl and used it to wipe the soot off her hands. The fire had been poorly timed, but at least it hadn't spread from the smithy. Running after everyone to organize a proper bucket chain had taken its toll, not to mention the aftermath of ember vigil and treating everyone who had gotten scratched and scorced in the ordeal.

She tossed the shawl away with a groan and fished out a small vial from her satchel, turning it in her fingers and inspecting the pale blue liquid in the light of the small lantern. The thought of taking another swig of the fortifying brew was lucrative, and growing more alluring by the second... But the vial was already half-empty. There had been a time when just a single draught had been enough to see her through the day with little issues. And a time when she hadn't needed any help at all to tolerate the wear and tear of everyday life. She spun the vial again, feeling the liquid slosh around. She knew what went into making the potion, and the reagents weren't exactly of the timid variety. Sure, she could chase away the weariness and have a good night's rest by just increasing the dosage and taking another swig, but that would only take her so far as she was already all too close to what she thought was safe.

She put the vial down with a heavy sigh, her knees protesting already. She'd need to brew more tomorrow regardless.

 

* * *

 

She felt it.

She felt it in her bones.

She gave the last rites to one of the Hoarwoods, rote by now, and thought she might as well be doing it for herself. She had done this enough times to not show it, though, giving the same condolences to different people.

She was tired. So tired. Her body was already telling her to lie down for a while, and this time it was not just out of spite that she denied that desire. She had things to do. Poultices were running low, mannaberries needed harvesting, the Westfield kid needed a thorough verbal slapping, the mayor's cow would need another dosage... Always things to do, and never before had her body felt this heavy. Where the years had dulled her body, they had sharpened her mind which was now looking in horror at what it was trapped inside.

A decrepit, old, dying body.

Dying.

What a strange thought. She smiled warmly to a crying grandson, giving him a reassuring pat on the shoulder. Same motions as always. Life went on, and so would she. She knew this, always had, but that didn't make it one bit less terrifying to think about.

 

* * *

 

She stood on the compost heap, digging her heels deep. It was disgusting, but at the same time... not. Peculiarly, she hadn't never really thought about that. The mold, the decay and the mushrooms... There was continuation there. One thing turning to the next. Death and life, in a way. The stench offended her nose, but now she could feel that there was more to it than just that.

She saw things differently, now. Not just because she was old and wizened—or that she used the owl for that—but she felt like everything was... weightier. A rock was not just a rock, and when she listened closely, wind mas more than mere air.

Was this what Tiffany had seen? A world of life and energy, hiding in plain sight? Maybe. There were precious few things that she would put past that old crone. Was this what she had felt, too? The trappings of her mortal coil. A young child stuck in the body of an old fart, screaming at the injustice of it all.

Maybe. Or maybe she had made peace with her fate long before it came to her.

Eleanora was not her, though. Many of Tiffany's lessons she had taken to heart, willingly or otherwise, but this she would not budge on. She was not ready. The Chapel talked about accepting one's lot in life, and the new minister had not very subtly tried to ask her if she had done any preparations for when her time came. And wasn't that a joke, that greenhorn with barely five years in the abbey trying to school her of all people on these matters.

She snorted at the thought. He meant well and would make for a good abbot in half a century or so, but before then...

She raised her staff and drove it into the mound. Nothing happened that anyone could see, but she _felt_ it. Deep in her, a part of her very soul quivering and straining as tendrils of magic sank into the ground and spread outwards like weeds. And then, as the magic took hold of the earth under her, she truly felt it. The immense weight of the land underneath her. The life oozing from it, every blade of grass fighting, _raging_ for its place in the sun.

It was heavy. It was so heavy on her. It was a chaotic circle, an ouroboros with a million heads. She felt all that life eating at itself, in an endless battle to go on, to continue. Mycelium feeding on the corpse of a bird, dungflies laying their eggs to get their part, pillbugs crawling after plants, and everything, _everything,_ being absolutely filled with this indistinct pulse of life. It would be so easy to give in, there. To give herself to the cycle she had always been a part of, to accept that others would go on in her stead.

She did not.

She was not separate from the circle. She never had been, never could be, and she would fight just like the rest, even if that meant clawing her place from a million tiny hands.

She cursed, uttering a word of power she hadn't known she had known, and all went still for a few long heartbeats. The magic seeping out from her stilled as she took control over the webbing of power soaking into the ground and made it do her bidding. She twisted her staff and drove it deeper into the ground, and with it forcing her will into the dirt and magic beneath her feet.

And the cycle twisted. It did not break, it could not, but the life drained from the land. The flies fell down mid-flight, dandelions withered, mushrooms dried up and the earth simply _died,_ the pulse of life shivering and then ceasing. She brought the staff up, and with it everything she had taken. She scoured the life out of the earth nearby, and as she brought down the staff the third and final time, she forced all that energy into herself. For a moment she lost herself, at the same time seeing with a million eyes and screaming with as many mouths as the force of life filled her to the brim and beyond. There was a buzz of power as her body could take no more, the backlash spilling out from her suddenly forcing the dead earth back to life, mycelium exploding into existence as raw lifeforce demanded life, and she went still. She could feel the stolen life within herself, thousands and thousands of tiny deaths crawling up her bones, propping her up.

She stayed there for long minutes before opening her eyes.

She could see.

She raised her feet from the dirt, one by one.

She could walk.

She took a deep breath and straightened herself, looking at the decay around herself. The compost heap she was on was silent, now, a graveyard of her own making. It was covered in whitish strands of fungi, with spores floating in the air, waiting to feast on the dead she had left behind and resume the cycle which she had suspended.

What did this say of her?

She wasn't sure, but that was a question for a later time.

She walked off the heap, feeling the dry filth scatter from her feet and leaving it behind.

She had things to do.

 

* * *

 

### Eleanora Fairfax, the Fungal Crone

#### Level 1 Circle of Spores druid

`STR: 8 (-1)`  
`DEX: 12 (+1)`  
`CON: 12 (+1)`  
`INT: 13 (+1)`  
`WIS: 16 (+3)`  
`CHA: 14 (+2)`

 

Proficiencies:

Nature | Alchemist's Supplies  
---|---  
Medicine | Cook's Utensils  
Insight | Herbalism Kit  
Perception  
Persuasion  
  
 

  
Feats:

**Magic Initiate (Wizard)**

Toll the Dead

Mage Hand

Find Familiar

**Author's Note:**

> And yes I am a sucker for blatant name references. Tiffany Aching (and granny Aching) are characters from Terry Pratchett's books. Carvahall and Garrow were taken from Eragon, which I read way too many times as a kid, and Eleanora Fairfax is the name of an old queen in Practical Guide to Evil.


End file.
